


The Visitor

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Playing fast and loose with some spell descriptions, caduceus is wise as always, no romance just friendship, pre-stream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: Caduceus is used to visitors to the Blooming Grove, but it seems that this particular visitor is something out of the ordinary, and Caduceus is not quite sure what to make of it.





	1. Chapter 1

Caduceus is used to visitors to the Blooming Grove. 

It is, after all, a graveyard, so it’s only natural that people would come to grieve and pay respects. When these visitors come, Caduceus has a tendency to stay in his cottage, unless he feels it’s necessary to go and comfort them, and even then, he keeps his distance, offers a cup of tea, and offers what wisdom he can. His mother is much better at such things, but in her absence, and in the absence of the rest of his family, the job of comforting mourners falls to him.

This visitor, though- there is something different. 

He can hear through the evening stillness, the careful steps of light feet on thin frost, leaves and other growth being pushed aside, as if rummaging for something specific. It’s a curious sound, and that it is unaccompanied by the words and prayers he is used to hearing catches Caduceus’s attention. What draws him from his cottage, staff in hand, however, is the quiet sound of something eating what plants have yet to succumb to the frost. 

“Hello there.” 

A doe is nibbling at one of the plants growing at the base of a headstone, and she looks up at the sound of his voice, perfectly still, dark eyes watching as the firbolg approaches. She’s a little lean for this time of year, and there are still traces of fawn-spots across her flank.

It’s curious, the way the doe stands perfectly still, rather than fleeing, as most deer are wont to do. Stranger still is that the deer is alone, and this deep in the wood- Caduceus remembers seeing deer when he was young, in a thinner part of the wood, far from the Blooming Grove. 

The doe blinks, as if to return the greeting, and bends down to continue eating the plants.

Caduceus watches for a moment, speaks a brief blessing of the Wildmother for his visitor and returns to the shelter of his cottage. 

It begins to snow.

It is three days later, down by the small creek that runs through his grove, drawing water for tea, when he sees her next.

A thin layer of powder covers the bank, and ice floats in the creek. Winter has come to the Savalierwood, and while it is not yet the deepest part, Caduceus can feel the deadly chill waiting to seize anything that has not prepared for the coming days.

She stands at the creek’s edge, not quite brave enough to put her hooves in and make taking a drink easier, but Caduceus can see she is managing just fine as she is. She seems a bit more skittish than earlier, but, again, she doesn’t flee at his approach. 

“Hello again, little one,” he says. “It’s nice to see you again.” 

The doe blinks- same as she did when they met a few days prior- and Caduceus meets her eyes, seeing for the first time an intelligence he’s never seen in a beast before. 

He wonders if the Wildmother has some hand in the doe’s appearance, but any chance to contemplate that further is disrupted by the sound of wolves on the doe’s side of the creek. 

She stiffens, her body frozen (save for her ears, which twitch towards the forest) for a split second before she hops onto the bank and bolts away, leaving Caduceus standing on the bank of the almost iced-over creek. 

After this last sighting of the doe, Caduceus is plagued by nightmares filled with wolves and trees twisted beyond their natural shape. He wakes with a bitter, foul taste in his mouth and cold sweat on his brow. He does not go back to sleep immediately- instead he finds himself in the temple to the Wildmother that his family has tended for many seasons. He does not expect the goddess to answer him when he asks for an explanation, and so he simply sits at the altar, breathing in the scent of the cold, damp earth that is the temple’s floor, waiting for his heart to settle before he returns to bed.

Five days after the encounter at the stream, the snow is falling again, collecting in lush banks outside of the Blooming Grove, and settling in fine dustings within its wards. Winter is coming more quickly than Caduceus anticipated, and so he is out collecting the rest of the root vegetables from his garden, so they can be taken care of and stored with the rest of his garden’s produce. 

He hears the sound of footsteps approach and looks up, almost expecting to see the doe from earlier, but instead, he is met with the sight of a human woman. 

Dark hair falls in snow-flecked curls, and eyes just as dark watch the firbolg. There is something in her eyes, a slightly dazed quality, as if she does not believe what she sees, though experience tells Caduceus that perhaps there is another reason behind the strangeness in her eyes- it’ll come to him eventually, he’s sure. Her shift and smock are soaked, the hem of both weighed down perhaps from having waded through the creek, and her arms are wrapped around her middle, as if to ward off the cold that has no doubt already begun to sink into her bones. 

“Can I help you?” 

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes meet his, and she blinks slowly- once- standing perfectly still before she takes a step towards him. Her step falters, and he goes to catch her, just in case she tries to recover and slips instead.

She is still conscious, and now, as Caduceus collects his basket of parsnips in one hand while another supports the girl, he realizes what the look in her eyes is- not something he has seen much of, but he is well-versed enough in magic to know the signs of strong magic having loosened its hold on a person.  

“Let’s get you inside,” he says, waiting for a small nod of assent before he helps her towards the cottage, where at least he can make tea that will help her warm up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit from another point of view.

This body isn’t hers.

It’s familiar- gods know she has used this shape before, to watch travelers coming through her wood- but it is not hers. If it were hers, she would feel it, and recognize it when she goes to drink from a puddle, but the creature that stares back is a stranger. 

At first, she tries to change back, like she knows she should be able to, but magic stronger than her own stops her, and she is trapped. 

She isn’t sure how long it is until she resigns herself to her fate, but once summer has turned to autumn, she accepts her fate. She does not venture back towards her wood, not even as the autumn turns cold and the necessity of food and shelter becomes more pressing. She prays to the Wildmother for a sign, begging the god for mercy. After all, had her mother not said that she was of the Wildmother, and the god would send aid in her daughter’s time of need.

Now, as she picks her way through the wood on spindly fawn’s legs, she thinks it is her time of need, so where is her mother’s god?

Winter draws near and plant growth becomes scarce. What there is is covered in the early frost, or picked near-clean by what other creatures live in the Savilierwood. 

She finds a plot of land carved out of the forest- not much, enough for a cottage and what appears to be a small temple of some kind- and she thinks she sees some kind of plant growing at the base of an upright stone. As she draws near, there is something in the air, something familiar, but the name still escapes her. It feels almost as her wood did, before…

“Hello there.” 

The voice startles her, but she does not bolt- a dead giveaway, perhaps, that she is not the creature whose shape she wears.

The speaker is a firbolg, with grey-silver fur and a shock of pink hair, not dissimilar in color from the bloom she had been nibbling on. He watches her with a gentle curiosity, a staff topped with a strange crystal in his hand. There is something familiar about him, though maybe it is simply that he is a firbolg, a creature she is not unused to seeing.

Instead of bolting, she blinks slowly, and resumes eating. 

The clouds overhead are the light grey that tell of a snowfall that evening. 

She sees the firbolg again, when she goes to drink from a creek, some days later, after a light snowfall. 

“Hello little one,” he says, and their eyes meet.

It is only for a moment, but she can see the quiet, steady wisdom in his eyes. Her mother’s eyes held the same look, once.

Their eye contact breaks as the sound of wolves in the distance catches her ear, and she feels her heart give a start. Not again, dear gods, not again, and she barely gives the firbolg a glance before she springs away, hoping to at least put ground between herself and the wolves, before they can catch her. No doubt they are hungry and searching for prey, and she knows she would make easy pickings if they catch up to her. 

When the wolves are far enough behind her and evening is approaching, she finds a place for the night. It is hard to make oneself comfortable, between her new shape and the approaching winter, but she is tired, and so she sleeps. Her sleep is peaceful, except for the nights which follows, during which she dreams.

She dreams of wolves, and of a figure shrouded in rotting moss, with harsh, bony growths that give the appearance of antlers that crowns its brow. There is the memory of rot and sickness, the disease that twists trees into terrifying parodies of their natural shape, the air filled with a taste that brings bile to her mouth. She tries to fight, to defend what is hers, but she is not strong enough. A spell hits her and she feels her strength leave her as necrotic magic spreads from where the figure’s spell hit, and she knows it is no use. 

She calls out to the Wildmother, and to her own mother, praying for strength, for help, for anything. 

She feels magic take hold of her once more, feels her body change against her will as she tries to fight, to keep her shape, to defend what is hers.

When she awakes one morning, not far from the firbolg and his cottage, there is a strange feeling that spreads over her. There is the cold that sinks into her bones from the ground below and the light dusting that fell overnight. There is the racing of her heart in her chest after the nightmare, but she forces herself to steady. Daylight is precious, and she cannot waste it.

It takes her a while to stand, her legs shakier than she is used to by now, such that she has to reach a hand to brace herself on a nearby tree. 

A hand. 

She has to be dreaming as she studies the hand- her hand- and glances down at her feet, wrapped in thin leather slippers that invite the cold wet of the snow in without much thought. But does the cold bite so in dreams as it does now, collecting on unruly curls and melting against clothes meant for summer? 

A shiver shakes her body and she decides she is not dreaming.

She is cold, and the snowfall is already coming down in heavier sheets. She cannot stay here, or she will die. 

She stumbles through the wood, clinging to trees so that she does not fall. She isn’t sure of her exact direction, following the pull of instinct that some part of her that’s still a child says is the guiding hand of the Wildmother, but still part of her doubts. If the Wildmother cared, would she not have delivered her from the prison of a doe’s shape, or come to her aid when…? Or perhaps she had failed, and the Wildmother was displeased, displeased she had let a sacred grove succumb to...whatever the figure was.

She is standing in a clearing. She sees a flash of pink, and hears someone ask if she needs help. She’s hugging her middle to keep the cold at bay, and she wants to answer, but she cannot find words to do so. The world is swimming and her head feels fuzzy, and she is glad whoever it is has such unusual coloring, or she might have lost him in the earthen tones of the forest. 

She takes a step forward, and feels the world drop, but something catches her, and she is grateful. 

“Let’s get you inside,” a voice says. 

She nods, and manages to stand with the other’s support.

She doesn’t count how long it takes them to cross the cold into warmth, but she can feel herself slowly returning. It is hard to find strength to speak, and she wishes she could thank the stranger for their kindness, or at least for not killing her immediately as she is settled on a cot and a blanket is put around her shoulders. 

“Let me put water on for tea,” says the voice, and she realizes that it belongs to the firbolg, who is standing close to her. He says this and pauses, bending down so his eyes are level with hers, and she feels him searching her expression for something, something she herself is unsure of. His eyes are kind and wise, and a brow furrows with concern. 

She nods again, the thought of tea- warm and comforting- enough to pierce through the strange haze she finds herself in.  Tea will help, tea has always helped, hasn’t it?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I'm very liberal with the rules of some spells here in this chapter- specifically the use of Animal Shapes in regard to duration. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and, as always, comments and other feedback are always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to yashas-strong-arms on tumblr for prompting me to write this, and I hope everyone who has read this enjoyed it! 
> 
> This will probably only be a few chapters long, so let me know what y'all think about it.


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